


and you kiss me like it’s all coming true

by constantblur



Series: 2018 Writing Challenges [9]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Keithtober, Knight Lance (Voltron), M/M, Prince Keith (Voltron), me: okay but counterargument: i write 6k of gross gooey marshmallow boyfriends, me: try to keep these keithtober things under 1k, prompt: prince/knight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 03:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16380242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constantblur/pseuds/constantblur
Summary: “Lance.”“I believe you mean ’Sir Lance,’” Lance serenely replies, not turning to acknowledge who just walked into his tent. His squire is still fastening his armor, after all; no point hindering her progress just for the charade of civility that neither one of them mean anyway.“And I believe you should be addressing me as ‘Your Highness,’” comes the retort, rather unexpectedly. Lance usually gets away with his little mockeries. Perhaps today isn’t the day to push things.Not that that will really stop Lance from trying. He turns his head just enough to spare a cool glance over his shoulder. “Courtesy begets courtesy.”Prince Keith’s jaw visibly twitches as he grinds his teeth. “Sir Lance.”---The king arranges a tourney. The prize: the prince’s hand in marriage.Sir Lance has no intention of claiming the grand prize and enters solely to irritate Prince Keith. Things don’t quite go according to plan, though.





	and you kiss me like it’s all coming true

**Author's Note:**

> booooo had to skip out on several days because my arm has been very not pleased with me. it’s gonna have to fucken get used to this writing-every-day lifestyle though because nanowrimo is RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER come on u useless arm get it together we don’t have time for u to be a weak little bitch.
> 
> super late on this one because of the combo of grumpy arm and getting carried away, but here’s day sixteen of keithtober: prince/knight

“Lance.”

“I believe you mean ’Sir Lance,’” Lance serenely replies, not turning to acknowledge who just walked into his tent. His squire is still fastening his armor, after all; no point hindering her progress just for the charade of civility that neither one of them mean anyway. 

“And I believe you should be addressing me as ‘Your Highness,’” comes the retort, rather unexpectedly. Lance usually gets away with his little mockeries. Perhaps today isn’t the day to push things.

Not that that will really stop Lance from trying. He turns his head just enough to spare a cool glance over his shoulder. “Courtesy begets courtesy.”

Prince Keith’s jaw visibly twitches as he grinds his teeth. “Sir Lance.”

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Lance responds with blatantly fabricated friendliness. “Big day for you, isn’t it?”

He can practically _hear_ the teeth grinding now. “Not quite,” Prince Keith says shortly.

“Oh?” Lance says, finally turning now that his squire’s finished her work. “But, Your Highness,” Lance gasps out, still overacting, “your very future gets decided today!”

If looks could kill, Prince Keith would be declared the winner of today’s tourney. “Nothing pleases you more than vexing me, does it?”

Lance props a hand on his hip, finally letting the feigned innocence melt off his face in favor of the smug grin he’s been biting back since the prince first said his name in that stormy tone. “Well, why else would I have entered this tourney?”

Prince Keith’s eyes flash as he takes a sharp step forward. “You would take it this far, _Sir?_ You wish for the privilege to irritate me every day, is that it? My own personal plague, duty-bound to torment me.”

The prince looks riled up and . . . rather distraught. More so than Lance would’ve predicted. His fists are clenched and shaking, chest heaving like he’d just done a flat sprint from here to the castle, and his eyes—his eyes. The fun abruptly goes out of this game. “Oh, relax,” Lance sighs, looking away. “I never had any intention to win.”

Prince Keith blinks, looks for a long moment like he doesn’t believe Lance—and then his shoulders drop, tension melting away as he steps back a bit. “You’re an ass,” he says.

“I was bored,” Lance says, grinning again. “There wasn’t much else to do. And it had been so long since I saw your beautiful, radiant, breathtakingly lovely, divinely exquisite”—he sees the prince’s face go slack with surprise—“constipated expression.”

The prince looks like he just bit into a lemon. He shoots Lance a withering glare. “Well, I’m glad to have given you your fix. Now go lose.” And he turns abruptly on his heel and sweeps out of the tent.

“One of these days, he’s just going to go ahead and exile you,” Lance’s squire says cheerfully. “Or skip straight to beheading.”

“Perhaps,” Lance says. “But I think he rather enjoys me.” He accepts the helmet being held out to him with a grin and a wink. “Thanks, Pidge.”

Pidge sighs. “There’s no point asking you not to call me that anymore, is there?”

“There really isn’t.”

Pidge sighs again. “Well, come on, then. You have a tourney to throw.”

Lance follows her out of the tent and to the tourney grounds, perking up even more at the roar coming from the stands. It sounds like the whole kingdom has turned out to see which of their sterling citizens will win the honor of marrying the prince.

It had long been rumored that the king was getting less patient and more desperate every day for his son to finally wed. Prince Keith was notorious for being, ah, less than charming, and it brought him little in the way of prospects. The prince was also notorious for seeming to like it that way and doing everything to keep his surly reputation intact. But surly or not, the prince was the heir and the king was not getting any younger, and now at 25, the king thought it was time for his son to marry and finally take that first distinguished step towards one day ruling the kingdom. 

And so the tourney was arranged, open to all the knights and lords in the land to enter—though it was made clear right away that their skills at jousting and archery and sword fighting weren’t the only virtues that would keep them in the running. One knight was quietly removed from the lists after he’d been found sleeping off his drunk in the stables. A lord had been escorted from the field after he failed to bow to his opponent before drawing his sword.

The number of candidates was culled far more quickly than the people had expected.

And now it’s down to two. Lance breezed his way through the archery competitions, got through the jousting rounds by the skin of his teeth, and now faces his final opponent with a sword after easily cutting through half a dozen other competitors in the ring.

He really didn’t expect to get this far, or even wanted to, but. Well. The competition was lousy, honestly. Lance considered throwing the tourney several times and finally taking himself out of contention once he’d had his fun needling at the prince, but the opponents he found himself drawn against were always either too incompetent to feign a loss to, or they were terrible in other unacceptable ways. Pompous, temperamental, thin-skinned, a knight with a gambling problem, a lord with a proclivity for reading tea leaves that would irritate the prince more than anything Lance had ever done. Really, it would’ve just been embarrassing to have any of them as his future king. It was in service to the realm that Lance dispatched them.

Lance enters the ring now opposite his opponent in this final round of the tourney. He doesn’t know Lord James very well, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no more room to knock out potentially distressing future monarchs. Lance may not know if Lord James has an unfortunate personality or troublesome habits, but he knows he’ll be King James someday. They’ll all just have to accept whatever flaws he may have—and honestly, if those flaws manage to irk the prince while not setting the kingdom into chaos, Lance will have emerged from this tourney as the true victor.

Lance and Lord James stand at attention while the king addresses the crowd. Lance can’t really hear him from all the way down here in the field with his helmet on, which is a shame because he’s probably saying something about Prince Keith that Lance could get a laugh out of. But Lance doesn’t bother to strain his ears, just watches mildly until the signal to begin is given.

_All right, your lordship_ , Lance thinks with a grin as he lowers his visor. _Let me at least put on a good show before I hand you a crown_.

They bow, draw their swords, and Lance rushes forward. They clash, steel on steel, and the fight begins.

Lance studies the way Lord James fights somewhat less dispassionately than he’d studied his other opponents, and that in itself is a fair sign. Lord James has excellent footwork, sharp eyes, and a quick mind. Lance is pleased that this last fight is the best one he’s fought this whole tourney. They’re fairly evenly matched, each using feints to test each other, able to meet each blow in even the quickest exchanges.

_Very well, Lord James_ , Lance thinks. _You have my approval_.

Their swords lock as they each two-hand the hilt, strength against strength, straining not to give way or lose their grip. Lance is just considering allowing his sword to be knocked from his hands when Lord James speaks.

“I know your purpose here isn’t to win,” he says, “but I appreciate you finally giving me something like a real challenge in this tourney.”

Lance automatically grins at that; so he wasn’t the only one bored stale by the competition here. “What makes you think I don’t want to win?”

Their swords slide along each other, allowing them to separate with a quick step back. Lance flips his sword in his grip and waits. He’s not in such a rush to end this yet; things just got interesting.

“I haven’t decided on the real answer yet,” Lord James says, “but just about everyone knows you’re not here for a betrothal and has their own opinion of why.” Lord James swings his sword at Lance’s left shoulder; Lance blocks, counters, withdraws at the same time Lord James does. “Some think you were here to fight a specific opponent. Some think you were sent here by Prince Keith to weed out candidates he didn’t like.” A rapid, drawn-out exchange that brings them from one end of the ring to the other, almost forcing Lance’s foot out of bounds, but he recovers and pivots away—or perhaps, Lord James let him. “Many think you’re just here to exasperate the prince.”

Lance can’t hold back the huff of laughter that escapes. “If you had to guess, which would you say is the reason?”

Lord James catches Lance’s sword and returns thrust, backing away before the exchange can be prolonged. “What does it matter? I know you aren’t here to win. If you were, there were half a dozen times already you would have taken me down.”

Lance is impressed that Lord James is self-aware and forthright enough to acknowledge he’s no match for Sir Lance. His approval of this future king ratchets up another notch.

“Well then,” Lance says, circling Lord James, “what is the reason you want to win? Or is the answer too pedestrian to bother voicing.”

Lord James keeps a watchful eye on Lance, turning in sync with Lance’s slow prowl. “There are the pedestrian reasons, of course,” Lord James says. “And the perhaps somewhat less pedestrian ones.”

Lance’s sword snakes out for a short, rapidfire exchange before he disengages and goes back to his slow prowl. “Like?”

“Is it cliched to think I could actually be a good king?” Lord James says. Lance can hear the smirk in his tone. He can’t, however, tell if Lord James is being genuine under the flippant tone or if he’s actually more flippant than he sounds.

Not that it matters. “Ah, so it’s integrity and duty that brings you here,” Lance says, playing along.

“Yes, that and,” Lord James says, and the sound of the smirk in his voice is even more pronounced now, “the conjugal rights.”

Lance almost drops his sword. He’s just relieved he’s drilled enough that he automatically moves when Lord James does, still manages to meet his strikes, though clumsily.

When they disengage this time, Lance chokes out an unintended, “What?”

Lord James starts the leisurely circle around Lance this time. “You have eyes, Sir Lance,” he jests. “So does everyone in this kingdom. As far as anyone knows, though, it’s all see and no touch with him.” Lord James lets out a light chuckle. “I’d be the first and only to get a leg over him. That’s worth fighting a dozen paltry swordsmen for.”

And suddenly, the fight is over, and Lord James lies unmoving in the dirt.

The crowd roars.

_Oh, no_ , comes the slowly growing realization.

 

 

“Lance.”

It comes out like a clap of thunder this time.

He’s been expecting this since he was escorted off the field. After a brief ceremony to celebrate Lance’s victory and declare him as the prince’s intended—a ceremony in which the prince was conspicuously absent—a palace servant had led him to this luxurious chamber and washed him in the hot bath that awaited him. Afterwards, he’d been dressed in the finest clothes he’s ever touched and left to rest with a platter of rich cheeses and fresh fruits. The servant had informed Lance he’d return later to escort him to the ball.

A _ball_. As if a simple palace guard would know any of the courtly dances he’d be expected to lead with the prince.

At any rate, Lance doubted the prince would be willing to dance any of those dances with him anyway. And so he sat in the bedchamber to wait for the prince to come and tell him that.

And come the prince has, and the words are wholly unnecessary to speak since Lance already heard them—and more—in the one word Prince Keith has thus far spoken. But the one word also suggests the prince has much more to say. It promises that Lance is in for a rough spell.

Lance turns to meet the storm head-on. “Listen, Keith—“

“‘ _Your Highness_ ,’” Prince Keith snarls. “I’ve been lenient with you for too long, let you make a mockery of me for _too long_ , and it ends now, Sir Lance. This is one game I won’t allow you to play. So congratulations, you had your fun. But this farce won’t go through.”

Lance finds himself startled by the raw emotion in the prince’s eyes. He’s never looked so genuinely affected by Lance’s games before—granted, none have ever managed to go this far, but Lance certainly has taken advantage of the prince’s leniency with him. Lance has long been far bolder with the royal prince than anyone, except other royalty, should be. He was wondering if, and when, he’d finally reach the boundary of Prince Keith’s tolerance. It seems he finally has.

Lance recognizes that now isn’t the time to push things. But it’s not the intrinsic sense of comportment one should feel as a subject speaking to his prince that curbs his usual inclination.

He just can’t stand that look in Prince Keith’s eyes.

“Your Highness,” Lance says, bowing low at the waist—when is the last time he ever gave such courtesy in the prince’s presence? He truly has been far too bold. “What I told you earlier today was the truth. This isn’t how this was meant to go. I promise this isn’t the game I intended to play, though I was wrong to have even started to play one with you to begin with. I apologize for my insolence, in this and many other matters.”

“Damn you, Sir, don’t continue to tease me—“

“I don’t, Your Highness,” Lance says, peering up at the prince though he doesn’t straighten from his bow. He just wants the prince to be able to see the sincerity in his eyes. “I’m not teasing you. I truly am sorry. I’ve never wished to cause you genuine distress, but I can see that I have and that . . . pains me, a great deal.”

Prince Keith stares down at Lance for several long moments. “This is very unlike you.”

“You too,” Lance says softly. “I don’t like seeing you like this, Your Highness.”

“For the past year and more, it has been your ultimate objective to see me like this,” Prince Keith snaps.

“No,” Lance says. “I never—well, yes, I enjoyed—provoking you, I’ll admit, and it was childish but I liked—I liked bantering with you, Your Highness, I liked—feeling close to you, I suppose, being almost how we once were, before . . . “

The prince crosses his arms, frowning. “Before what, exactly? Before you decided mocking a prince was a better game than playing at being his friend?”

Lance sighs. “Honestly, Your Highness, I hardly even know. Before it hit me that you are a prince and I am just a palace guard, I suppose.”

The prince remains silent for a tortuously long minute. Lance wishes he still had that ability to know what’s in the prince’s mind, but right now, he hardly knows what’s in his own mind. Lance was utterly unprepared for any aspect of this conversation and is embarrassed at how he’s blundering his way through it; this is more sentiment and honesty than he can handle right now after such an already bewildering day. He’d just wanted to get rid of that look in Prince Keith’s eyes.

“Oh, stand up straight, will you,” Prince Keith says gruffly. “You’re giving me a backache.”

Lance does as he’s asked, though he keeps his head dipped and his hands clasped behind his back. “Anyway, I suppose what I was trying to say,” he barrels ahead, “is that all that—teasing—it was never meant to go too far. And with this, I went too far. I’m sorry, Your Highness.” A thought occurs to him and he lifts his head, perking up a bit. “But surely the king wouldn’t press you into this. You are his son, and he cares for you a great deal. He wouldn’t want you forced into a situation that makes you so unhappy. And,” he chuckles lightly, “I am, after all, just a palace guard. He knows I’m not fit for a crown. Your father will want better for you, I’m sure.”

Prince Keith tilts his head, eyes narrowing in consideration. “So you still do that.”

Lance frowns, thinking back over what he’s done in the past minute. He’s sure he barely even moved. “Do what?” he asks blankly.

“I’ve only been hearing the vainglory for so long, I wasn’t sure anything else lay underneath it anymore,” Prince Keith says. “But you are still a contradiction, Sir Lance. Utterly in love with yourself, and utterly certain no one else is.”

Before Lance can even begin to attempt to formulate a response to that, the prince begins pacing across the room. “The king will not be moved on this,” he says, as if he hadn’t said all the rest. “Even in my fury, thinking of how I’d argue against the marriage to him, what I’d offer in exchange of being released from this—I knew nothing would change his mind.” He slashes a glance at Lance as he paces past him. “There was already a long discussion before the tourney, you see, and my signature is on the document that was drafted after that very long discussion, and that, really, is the end of that.”

“Oh,” Lance says, sounding and feeling very small. “But—but—you don’t—“

Prince Keith spares him a mild glare as he strides past him again. “No, I don’t want to marry you,” he says. “You have been a prominent, pestering thorn in my side, and I imagine after one year of being married to you, I’ll walk out the window of the tallest tower just to be rid of you.” He comes to a halt in front of Lance. “But,” he sighs, “I _really_ didn’t want to marry Lord James either.”

“Really?” Lance is surprised to hear that. Before Lord James had said— _that_ , which Lance is reasonably certain isn’t something he’s ever said amongst polite company, least of all the prince—he’d seemed like a rather likable, competent man. Perhaps not the man of Prince Keith’s dreams, but a much more desirable intended than the smart-mouthed knight who’s little more than a tutor for other knights destined to better him.

“Congratulations, you were not at the very bottom of that list,” Prince Keith says dryly.

“But still very near the bottom,” Lance says. _Oh, hell_. Before he can stop himself, his hands are running over his face and through his hair, probably making it stick out in every direction. “I’m sorry,” he says again, miserably, “I really—god—I fouled this up.”

“Yes,” the prince says tersely. “You did.”

Lance bites at the pad of his thumb; an old habit he keeps thinking he’s finally broken until he finds himself in another nerve-racking situation, and then there’s flesh under his teeth and exasperation with himself for never letting his terrible old habits die. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks weakly as he tucks his hands behind his back again, feeling foolish because, really, what could a palace guard possibly do for a prince? In defiance of a _king?_ “Maybe—“ he says quickly, desperately, “maybe if I just leave—I could get on my horse right now and just—“

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Prince Keith snorts. “A knight, deserting his duty to his king? They would hunt you down. I’m not sure what they’d do to you once they found you, but we can safely assume it won’t be pleasant.” The prince sighs and looks across the room, gazing out the window. The fading light softens his features. “And I could not ask you to leave your family,” he quietly adds.

Lance’s eyes burn. “Your Highness . . . “ He lowers his face to the floor, blinking rapidly. The prince shouldn’t care about that. The prince should only care about finding a solution to this problem. Lance struggles to think of one, anything that will save the prince from Lance’s foolishness, but—

“It would seem,” Prince Keith says heavily, “that there is no way out of this.”

Lance is the most unmitigated and unbelievable ass. What the _flistering hell_ had he been thinking? What nonsense had gone through his head that rationalized this as some kind of game? He can’t fathom it now. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Enough,” Prince Keith snaps. “Your apologies do little but irritate me. They don’t change the situation at all, so just—no more apologies.” He deflates, looking weary. “What’s done is done, so I suppose I need to just—we need to just . . . weather it.”

The prince begins pacing again, spine straightening as he seems to rally himself. “It won’t be quite the ordeal it seems like right now,” he says. “I imagine you will be more a figurehead, so there’s no need to worry yourself about being overburdened. Your obligations will mainly lie in ceremonial duties: accompanying me on state visits, appearances at formal functions, maintaining a public interest in charitable matters. In the time before I become king, you will be tutored in all relevant matters in the event I might need a regent to temporarily take control of my duties. Should you take an interest in governance, you would be more than welcome to sit on my council once I am crowned. Otherwise, your life can continue much as it has now. You would still be living at the castle, obviously. Though in much better comfort than you have now in the barracks.”

He gives Lance a rather amused look as he walks past him. “You could continue your tutoring in the training yards—I imagine the knights will be thankful for that.” Prince Keith comes to a stop near the window, his back to Lance. “Really I think it will come down to figuring this out as we go,” he says quietly. “Most of those who become royalty are raised to it. Most marriages are more . . . political. This sort of arrangement is very new and very unknown, and so it’s ultimately up to us to decide how it will go.”

Lance bites his lip; at least it’s not his thumb again. “You make it sound so . . . “

Prince Keith turns slightly. A small smile touches his mouth but doesn’t reach his eyes. “Simple?”

“Cold.” Lance looks down again, unsure why it bothers him so much. 

“Most royal marriages are,” the prince says, turning away again. “They’re more of a business deal than anything.”

Lance takes a hesitant step towards the prince. “It’s up to us to decide what our marriage will be like, though, right?” he says. Another step. “We used to be close. You remember. I used to think of you as . . . “ He falters in the middle of another step. “ . . . One of my most precious friends. That got lost somehow. But we could be that again, don’t you think? We haven’t forgotten how we used to be.”

“How we used to be,” Prince Keith acerbically repeats. “You’ve been playing games with me since the day we met, Sir. I never felt as much your prince as I did your fool.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Lance says sharply, his boot making a decisive click on the hard floor. “I teased you, yes, and you treated me the same. It wasn’t—there was nothing ugly about it. It was only friendship between us. It was—easy. Good-natured. I know you felt the same way.” He comes to a stop just an arms-length from the prince. “You never felt like my prince because you never treated me like your subject,” Lance says softly. “You—you treated me like I was your equal.”

The prince’s back looks very stiff. “And look what it got me,” he says bitterly. “A vassal with so little respect for his prince that making a mockery of me is his favorite pastime.”

“You didn’t used to think of it as a lack of respect,” Lance says. “I know it used to please you, having someone around who wasn’t always bowing and scraping and ‘Your Highness’-ing you. You used to like that I was—bold.” He swallows hard. “When did that change? Why? Which of us first accepted that you are a prince and I am just a palace guard and friendship between those two stations will always be out of place?”

“It wasn’t me,” Prince Keith says. There’s no hesitation, no room for argument in his tone.

Like that’s ever stopped Lance. “Are you so sure about that, Your Highness?” he says tartly. “Because I’m not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the prince snaps as he rounds on Lance.

Lance tries to hold the prince’s gaze, but the words can’t make it past his throat while looking at that swirl of indignation and hurt. Eyes on the floor, Lance says, “If you felt that I was pulling away from you, it was only because I felt you pulling away from me first.”

“I still don’t take your meaning, Sir,” Prince Keith says, cold and curt.

“That, right there,” Lance says, finally looking up again. “The first time you called me ‘Sir’ again after it had been just ‘Lance’ for so long, my blood ran cold.” There’s a flicker in the prince’s eyes that makes Lance feel like he should stop this course of discussion, change it to something else and just let this go once and for all. But it’s stuck in his ribcage for too long now, a secret sore spot long neglected that is all the more tender for it now than Lance realized. And really, if they’re to be married, isn’t this the sort of thing that will have to come out sooner or later?

“I convinced myself at first that you were just being courteous. Showing me respect in front of other people. But even when there was no one else around, I was ’Sir.’ And soon, it seemed like that was all I was to you.” Lance looks down again, now feeling like he is intimately familiar with the grooves and whorls in the wooden floor. “After you spent so long insisting that I call you by your given name, you didn’t even seem to notice when I stopped.”

The silence feels like it has a pulse.

The prince clears his throat. Lance sees his feet turn away from him. “I noticed,” the prince says.

Lance is startled by how affected his voice sounds. He stills for a long minute, thrown off, until the old wound throbs again from years of neglect. “Because that’s how it was supposed to be, right? That was my place. Bowing and scraping and ‘Your _Highness_.’ Silly me, to think it could be any different. Were you relieved, to no longer have to consort with a commoner?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Prince Keith snaps out, loud and fierce. But his back is still to Lance, and it bothers him that he can’t see the prince’s face.

“I’m sorry I was such a bother that I wouldn’t just disappear entirely,” Lance presses on. “It’s pathetic, really, isn’t it? How desperate I was to get any amount of your attention I could. I should’ve just obliged you and left. The games were petty revenge. Useless games wasted on someone who didn’t care.”

The prince turns. “Of course I cared,” he says in a voice that comes out wretched and broken. “I was in love with you.”

The look on his face is something Lance regrets wishing to see.

He can’t even process the prince’s words at first, too dumbfounded by the anguish that overflows from Prince Keith’s eyes. He feels smothered by emotion that isn’t his and numbness that is. The words can’t quite penetrate beyond the thick layer of stupefaction that accompanies the realization that all this time, he wasn’t the only one hurting.

The prince paces away again, planting his feet on the other side of the room unsettlingly close to the door. “It was in panic that I pushed you away. My fear made me irrational and—distant. Every day, I thought of apologizing to you, mending things, continuing on as we had been. But—you let me. I pushed you away and away you went. It seemed as though . . . there was nothing to mend.”

Lance feels like he should say something, respond to this somehow, but his words have fled him. The prince continues before he can choke anything out. “I see now I was wrong. I let my fear control me and I—I hurt you. Something I’d been trying to avoid. It seems we’re both adept at unintentionally cutting one another. I suppose we’re even.”

Prince Keith straightens, shoulders taut, hands clasped behind the back that is all Lance can see of him. “This—discussion—will have to continue later. I’m sure I’m very late to the ball already. You may stay here and rest. I’ll inform my father you were feeling unwell.”

“Wait—“ Lance finally manages, “don’t—“

“I assumed you wouldn’t be looking forward to being dragged front and center of these types of festivities just yet,” Prince Keith dryly remarks. “You’ll have a lifetime of them ahead. It’s all right to skip this one until you’re more prepared.”

“That’s not it,” Lance says hastily. “It’s—you can’t just—Keith, we need to talk about this.”

The prince’s back gets yet more rigid. “As I said,” he hoarsely responds, “it will have to wait.”

“No, it damn well won’t,” Lance says, storming forwards and practically flinging himself between the prince and the door. “You can’t shut me out anymore. We’re getting married, remember?”

Prince Keith’s fists clench, face tight. “I’m well aware. This morning I was nauseous with dread until you _assured_ me this wouldn’t happen. And now here I am, living the nightmare of being bound for life to someone who doesn’t love me back.”

Lance feels as though he’s been suddenly submerged in warm honey. “Keith,” he says softly. “You still . . . ?”

“I really have to go,” the prince says thickly, moving to brush past Lance.

Lance wraps his hands around the prince’s arms and holds fast. “You have to give me a minute,” he says. “It’s—it’s a lot—you need to let me—I’m just trying to—how could you not tell me, you ass?” he suddenly blurts out. Lance feels a little unhinged; it’s been a long, strange day, and he’s tired, and he’s trying to process a lot at once. Calling the prince an ass is completely justified in these circumstances. “All this time— _all this time?_ ”

He feels like he’s being tossed around in a tidal wave.

“Lance,” the prince says pleadingly.

And all at once, he learns how to swim.

“You should have told me,” Lance says. “Don’t you see how absolutely hopeless I am? Teasing you, provoking you, challenging you over ridiculous duels and ridiculous wagers—all because I wanted your attention so badly. Telling myself a million times to leave this castle, making a million plans for where I could go or what I could do, but I couldn’t leave. Getting blackout drunk the night before the Midsummer Tourney because winning suddenly didn’t seem to matter as much as forgetting for a little while that Prince Rolo would be there and everyone was anticipating the announcement of your engagement.” His head drops as a helpless laugh spills out of him. “I didn’t even know. I couldn’t put it together, not on my own.” Lance straightens again, finding himself mere inches from Prince Keith as their eyes lock. He feels pleased—and a little amused—a little enthralled—by the look in the prince’s eyes. “You should have told me.”

“Lance,” says the prince. “If you’re—toying with me—“

“No,” Lance whispers. “I’m not, I swear.”

“Well, you can’t just—you may think you mean it now, but you don’t, you can’t, this isn’t something you just—“ The prince cuts himself off, shaking his head in frustration. “You should take the time to think about this. A lot has happened today. You need rest, and time. Don’t say anything now you’ll regret once you’ve—“

Prince Keith doesn’t get to finish the rest of his sentence because Lance kisses him.

And it’s a _kiss_.

It’s not particularly long, or deep, or skilled. Their lips touch, softly at first, and then tentatively press more fully. Their noses scrunch a little uncomfortably against each other before Lance tilts his head and fixes the angle. Prince Keith’s hands clutch at Lance’s waist, then his shoulders, then flutter a bit helplessly down his back, like he just doesn’t know what to do with them.

Lance has never been so consumed by a simple kiss.

When he pulls back, he knows it must show on his face.

It must, because the prince flushes pink, gaze flicking down and back up before hesitantly asking, “Do you really?”

Lance cards his fingers through Prince Keith’s hair, tucking it behind an ear. Something he’d frequently had an urge to do all those years ago, but had never quite been bold enough to try. “I love you,” he says. “So much it’s a wonder I could ever fool you into thinking I didn’t, much less myself.”

The prince snorts. “You certainly had me hoodwinked.”

“You really only have yourself to blame for it,” Lance says, finally letting go of the prince and stepping back. “You could have said something at any time and brought on this epiphany much sooner. It would’ve saved a lot of time and suffering.” He pulls a face. “I wouldn’t have had to duel that vile prig.”

“Lord James?” Prince Keith says dryly.

“Yes. Him.” Lance frowns more deeply. “Can I banish him from court? Is that something I can do as a prince? Prince-to-be? What even am I right now?”

“Prince consort,” the prince answers. “Until your coronation. Then you’ll be a prince in your own right, and eventually a king.” He smiles rather mischievously. “You don’t yet have the authority to banish him, but I do. Shall I make it known I’m doing it on your behalf?”

“If my husband-to-be wouldn’t mind giving me the credit,” Lance teases.

The prince’s smile softens. “That sounds nice.”

“What? Husband-to-be?” Lance reaches forward and takes Prince Keith’s hand, smoothing his thumb over the back of it. “Is it absurd to say I can’t wait to drop the ‘to-be’?”

“No,” the prince whispers.

Lance tugs the prince in a little closer. “Is this . . . is this all right?” he asks, unable to keep the worry from his tone. “Do you really want this?”

“Do you?” the prince says quietly.

“Yes.” No hesitation. Not anymore.

Prince Keith’s eyes light up in a smile. “You’ve moved considerably far up the list,” he says.

“Oh really?” Lance says. He feels an embarrassingly besotted grin unfurl, but he’s unable and unwilling to rein it in. The day has been a study in emotional whiplash; for as devastated as he’d felt when Prince Keith had first entered the room, he feels many times more euphoric now. He can’t believe he’d ever been able to misread this or overlook it. With so much time and grief to make up for, Lance expects that for at least the foreseeable future, he’ll be more than willing to be openly, flagrantly smitten. “Just where do I land on it now? Am I at least above—hmm, Sir Matthew?”

“Don’t go fishing for compliments,” the prince scoffs. “You know exactly where you land.”

“Want to hear my list?” Lance says.

Prince Keith’s eyes narrow.

“There’s only one name on it,” Lance adds, helpfully.

The prince flushes red.

“Don’t we have a ball to attend?” Lance says, casually turning towards the door and pretending he didn’t notice.

The prince surges forward, and suddenly Lance’s back is against the door. “I’m going to marry you,” he says fiercely, “and for the entire first year, I will be taking my vengeance for every time you mocked me.”

“And I’m going to marry _you_ ,” Lance says, “and for the entire first year, I’ll make you pay for all the time you kept this secret and kept us from having this.”

Prince Keith sags forward, his forehead dropping onto Lance’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

Lance wraps his arms around the prince. “I’m sorry,” he echoes.

“Truce?” says the prince.

“Truce,” Lance agrees.

Prince Keith draws back, taking Lance’s hand again. “We have a ball to attend,” he says.

Lance feels his face crumple in distress as he thinks again of all the courtly dances he doesn’t know, how he and the prince will be expected to lead the first one to open the ballroom floor, the dozens and dozens of courtiers he’s never met before that will want to lavish congratulations on the prince and will expect the prince consort to at least make pleasant small talk with them.

“Or,” the prince says, “we could sneak into the kitchens, steal some food, and take a ride to the Baku Falls.”

Lance smiles brightly, holding the prince’s hand up to kiss the back of it. “I’m glad I’m marrying you,” he says with a blissful sigh.

Prince Keith smiles back, and Lance feels dazed and heartflushed at the tender affection in it. “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

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